


Lux et Tenebrae

by DestinyWolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Colonies, American History, Angst, Bisexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fem!Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Genderbending, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, I'm just having fun, Johnlock - Freeform, Lesbian Character, Love, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Salem, Salem Witch Trials, Superstition, True Love, Witchcraft, Witches, fem!john watson, fem!johnlock, genderbent Sherlock, genderbent john, historically inaccurate probably, june is bi, sherlock is accused of witchcraft and june is Not Amused, sherlock is lesbian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:09:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/DestinyWolfe
Summary: The year is 1692. The village of Salem, Massachusetts is in turmoil. After two young girls fall prey to an unknown affliction, accusations of witchcraft cast doubt and suspicion on everyone in town--women, especially, and those with peculiar eccentricities in particular. In this town, June Watson and Sherlock Holmes, two women recently arrived in the American colonies on a ship from London, are caught up in the infamous Salem Witch Trials after Sherlock is accused of being a witch. With the threat of capital punishment hanging over her best friend's head, June must find a way to either stop the trials, prove Sherlock's innocence, or escape before the worst happens. (A fem!Johnlock Historical AU)





	1. Solomon Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! So this is my first attempt at writing a genderbent fanfic, and my first attempt at writing Sherlock and John outside of their own universe. Also, my first attempt at writing a historical AU! So lots of firsts for me. Which is why I want to apologize in advance for any mis-characterizations or wonky historical inaccuracies. I tried!
> 
> Thank you to everyone on Tumblr who encouraged me to write this! I'm really excited about this story, and looking forward to writing fem!Sherlock and fem!John in the 17th century. I hope y'all enjoy it, too! <3

**Chapter One**

**Solomon Hill**

January of 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts was a bitterly cold month. Ice clung to gutters in thin, dangerous-looking spikes. Snow blanketed every rooftop, hill, and field. Brittle, leafless trees stood like weary sentinels beside gravel roads, leaning over the few travelers that dared make the trek from Salem Village to Salem Town for much-needed supplies. The weary creaking of wood-frame houses under the weight of new snowfall combined with the constant wailing of the wind; the result was an eery, rattling sigh that twisted and slunk its way into every corner of every building in the village.

It was early in the morning of the 21st of this cruelly cold month that June Watson, a woman of 35, newly arrived in the Colonies on a ship sailing from London, awoke to find a note written in a familiar, impeccably elegant hand, sitting on her bedside table. She sat up at once. The light of her lantern had gone out; she'd forgotten to put it out herself when she'd fallen asleep earlier that night, but a thin ray of moonlight fell neatly upon the message. Carefully, June slid out of bed, pulling on her warmest clothes. Shivering against the chill of the night, she located a little pitcher of lamp oil and reignited the flame. The warm yellow glow spread across her small but comfortable living space, illuminating the sparse furniture she'd been able to bring from London: a double bed; two sitting chairs facing each other before the fire; a small, dented table for two; an ornate chest of drawers to hold everything else she possessed, which wasn't much. 

June held the note up to the new light of her lamp. The letters, penned in black ink, stood out starkly against the yellowed paper:

 _Solomon Hill,_ the letter read. _Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same._ \- _SH_

June ran a hand across her face. Her fingers caught in her light hair as she attempted in vain to straighten out the tangles her brief sleep had left behind. Giving up, she picked up the lantern and ducked down to look under the bed for her boots. She pulled them on with a sigh of contentment—they were made of good, thick leather and lined with rabbit fur, a luxury she would never have been able to afford back in London—and replaced the lantern on the table. She turned it off, and made her way to the door.

Outside, the wind was howling with vicious fury. June shivered. She looked up at the moon—a quarter full and waxing—and quickly cast her gaze down again. _A cursed moon,_ she'd heard some villagers call it. _The best phase for bewitchment and the brewing of evil potions._ Of course, it was all just superstition. June knew that. She'd been raised in a reasonably wealthy, well-educated family back in England, and despite the occasional misgivings about particularly odd neighbors, her mother had assured her that witches were, more often than not, simply women possessing talents or abilities that confused or frightened men. Either that, or people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Regardless, nothing to be afraid of—unless you were accused of being one, that is. Which was why June kept the fact that she could read and write to herself. Especially in Salem Village, where tensions with Colonial government and the nearby Salem Town were growing, it was better to keep your head down and to toe the line.

By the time June reached Solomon Hill and was able to make out several lanterns bobbing on its crest, it occurred to her that she might be meeting with multiple people. Sighing, she once again made a vain attempt at untangling her hair, or at least patting it down a bit. Smoothing down the front of her coat, she lifted her head and set her shoulders. Taking a deep breath in preparation for whatever lay ahead, she started up the hill toward the dim, flickering lights above.

The first voice June heard was the most familiar. It was deep for a woman's, rich and full of barely contained eagerness. “You have to _look_ at him. Really _look._ If a living dog had made those wounds, the pattern would be rougher, less carefully placed. There would be more blood. If this was a dog attack, a _real_ dog attack, then where's the blood?”

With a deep sigh, June climbed the last few steps and crested the hill. “Sherlock,” she said.

One of the three forms bent over the illuminated body of a young, pale boy's body rose to her full, rather impressive height, and turned toward the sound of June's voice. She smiled, her face lighting up. “Good, June, right on time! Come and help me convince these idiots that they're missing the obvious. Again.”

June didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew she'd be there just then, or how Sherlock had known she'd find the message on her bedside at all. Sherlock just did. With a sigh of resignation, June approached the body. The snow blanketing the ground crunched and gave way underfoot with a sound like breaking bones. She crouched down next to the corpse, folding her arms over her chest to conserve some warmth. “Do you mind?” she asked the two men—officials who'd worked with Sherlock several times before, standing stiff and uncomfortable beside the tall, cloaked and confident woman—in case June was, for some reason, suddenly unwelcome.

One of the men—Lestrade, June believed he was called—shook his head with a weary sigh. “No, go ahead. Don't want to be standing out here all night, and maybe bringing a fresh set of eyes to the problem will help.”

Sherlock made a sharp sound of irritation. June glanced up at her just as she rolled her pale eyes. “Problem, Sherlock?”

Sherlock set her face in a familiar _I-can't-believe-you're-so-stupid_ expression. “Yes, actually. I solved this case. Before even seeing the crime scene. We don't need a fresh set of eyes, we need to make an arrest.”

June cocked an eyebrow. “Then how was it done?”

“Yes, enlighten us.” Lestrade's voice was thick with sarcasm.

Sherlock was, in an instant, crouched beside June, her eyes bright with the thrill that this moment always seemed to bring her. The moment where everything was clear to her, and nothing clear to those around her. Her _'showing off_ ' moment, June had dubbed it. 

“There.” Sherlock pointed to the fatal injury: a set of viciously deep puncture wounds in the victim's throat, spreading from just under the boy's jaw to his collarbone. Very clean, June noted. No tearing or mangling of the skin. “All the information you need to make an arrest is right there. Not only is there very little blood or bruising, and no damage beyond the marks, but the angle is all wrong. If a dog had seized the boy by the throat, the marks would fall on both sides of the neck. These wounds are only on one side. For an injury like this to occur, a dog—a very large dog—would've had to leap _down_ onto the boy, and clamped its jaws around one side of the neck before its paws hit the ground.” Sherlock straightened up, turning her intense gaze on Lestrade. “Look around.” She gestured impatiently at their surroundings with one gloved hand. “We're on a hill. There's nowhere to go but down. Where would the dog have come from?”

Lestrade glanced at the other man beside him—Anderson, June remembered—and shrugged. “She has a point.” It sounded as if it pained him to admit it. “How did the attack happen, then?”

Anderson crossed his arms, frowning deeply. June was aware that this man had a deep, abiding hatred for Sherlock. For the woman who never failed to outwit him at every turn. Sometimes, June was afraid of what Anderson might do to Sherlock if he were ever given the opportunity. Her mother's words about talented women flashed through her mind again. She suppressed a shudder. 

“Well,” Anderson began, “it's possible that the boy was killed somewhere else, and brought to the hill later. Maybe someone's dog ran him down, and the owner's covering his tracks?”

June straightened up and looked at Sherlock, already holding her breath in anticipation of the fiery retort she knew must come. 

True to form, Sherlock fixed Anderson with a withering look and said, “And it's possible that your mother loved you. I don't deal in possibilities, Anderson. Not when the facts are so glaringly obvious a ten-year-old could work them out.”

June fought the urge to laugh, hide her face in her hands, or both. Instead, she opted for staring at a particularly bright star just above the horizon, and doing her best to ignore the comical look of shocked disdain on Anderson's face.

“I won't stand here and be insulted by a woman!” Anderson clenched his fists, and took a step toward Sherlock. June, without hesitation, moved in front of her taller friend. Anderson stopped short, but continued to glare daggers. “I beseech you to send her away.” Anderson turned to Lestrade, his expression twisted with fury and frustration.

Lestrade sighed heavily, shaking his head. “God help us,” he said, “but we need her.”

June relaxed at Lestrade's words, and took a step back, allowing her defensive stance to fall. Her arm pressed against Sherlock's, and for a moment, their fingers brushed. June let out her breath slowly through her nose, relaxing. “So who did it, then? If not a dog. Who killed him?”

Sherlock's mouth curved up at one corner. The fire reignited in her eyes, replacing spite with excitement. “He was clever.” She moved around to the corpse's head, looking down with unveiled enthusiasm at the punctured throat. An expression that, in the eyes of most, would be extremely inappropriate given the situation, June couldn't help thinking. But this was Sherlock. She didn't mean any harm. It was the puzzles that Sherlock loved, not the sight of death or misery, as those around her often assumed. In her own strange, slightly unnerving way, she was thrilled by the thought of bringing to justice those who'd commit these horrible crimes. In no world that June had ever considered was Sherlock Holmes drawn to the idea of being the _reason_ for an investigation. Sherlock wasn't a killer. She was a bloodhound, leading the hunters to their prey. Bringing light to the darkest corners of the world.

“Who?” June asked. Because she knew that's what Sherlock wanted from her.

“The taxidermist.” Sherlock's face glowed with the satisfaction of a well-drawn-out revelation. “He's your man, Lestrade.” She turned to the short, gray-haired man. “I believe if you search his place of business, you'll find a juvenile wolf's head whose teeth match the wound pattern on this boy's throat exactly.”

Lestrade appeared aghast. “But why?” He rubbed his hands together, then tucked them under his arms when that failed to warm them. “Why would the taxidermist want to kill this boy? Who is he, anyway?”

“Illegitimate child.” Sherlock's response came so fast it blended with the last few words of Lestrade's question. “The taxidermist had intimate relations with a woman from Salem Town six years ago, and now she's found him out and demanded care for herself and the child. He's not rich enough to support them both, so, naturally, he did away with the child.”

“Naturally?” June's eyebrows shot up. 

Sherlock glanced at her, lips pressing together. Her expression flashed from excited to confused, before settling on resignation. “Bit not good?”

“Bit not good,” June confirmed. “Word choice, Sherlock. You should work on that.”

Lestrade uncrossed his arms. He shook his head, breathing out a gust of white into the pure night air. The wind seized the white mist and whisked it away. “And how in the hell did you work that out?”

“Maybe because she's the child's mother,” Anderson sneered. “And she conspired with the taxidermist to kill the boy, then cover it up with convoluted theories about fake dog bites. Seems like something this cold-hearted bitch would do.”

For a brief moment, June saw red. Stepping forward, she balled up her right fist, thumb pressed against four curled fingers, and prepared to knock the smirk right off Anderson's smug face. But then someone caught her by the sleeve, pulling her back. She struggled for a moment before realizing it was Sherlock's hand wrapping around her wrist, slender, familiar gloved fingers pressing against her pulse. Forcing herself to relax a bit, June released her clenched fist, but didn't let up on her frozen, furious glare.

“Ignore him.” Sherlock's fingers tightened very slightly around June's wrist as she spoke. “He's only upset because his wife is out of town, and his mistress is too busy with other men to visit.”

June's glare turned to surprised delight as Anderson's smile turned inside-out. “I… that's not… I never…!” Anderson looked to Lestrade imploringly, but Lestrade refused to look at him.

“I don't care if Anderson has fifty mistresses,” Lestrade said wearily. He reached up and rubbed one hand across his face, then through his short gray hair. “Just tell me how you know the boy belongs to the taxidermist, and we can all go home.”

“Fine.” Sherlock huffed out a breath, rolling her eyes. “Obvious. I spoke to a blonde, blue-eyed woman accompanied by the taxidermist at a shop three days ago. She asked me if I'd seen a boy of six with dark hair and brown eyes, and fondly remarked that he was always running off into trouble. Obviously the mother, then. If you examine the features of the dead child and those of your suspect, I think you will find they are a much closer match than even the mother and child. Dark features are usually dominant, and despite the mother's fair hair and pale eyes, her child took on the father's physical traits.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, and pulled out a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal to jot something down. “Is that it, then?”

Sherlock stepped away from the corpse, drawing her long, dark cloak tighter around herself. The wind plucked at her dark curls, lifting them from her shoulders and whipping them around her pale face. “Good luck with the arrest, Lestrade.” Her voice dripped satisfaction. “I'm sure you can manage that part on your own.”

June glanced back at Anderson and Lestrade as Sherlock started off down the hill. “Sorry about that.” She shrugged helplessly. “She's just like that, you know.”

“I know,” Lestrade agreed, with a sigh. “You watch out for her, Miss Watson. Salem's a dangerous place for a woman like her.”

June nodded once. Turning away, she followed Sherlock down the hill, back toward the dark, sleeping village below. Overhead, the quarter-moon shone bright between dark gray clouds.


	2. Rising Storm

  
**Chapter Two**  


**Rising Storm**

“Why did you leave me that message?” June caught up to Sherlock at the base of the hill, and fell into step beside her. “It wasn't because you needed me to witness yet another triumph over the officials. God knows I've seen enough of those.”

Sherlock smiled. “The solution was perfectly obvious, yet they couldn't see what was right under their noses. It's a wonder why my brother keeps them in his employ.”

June glanced back at the figures of Lestrade and Anderson marching down the hill, lanterns swaying, the ghost of their voices drifting through the bitter night air. “Well, he's a government official himself, isn't he? He has to follow colonial law. He can't exactly ask his little sister to take over as an inspector or magistrate. It would be an outrage. He has to think of what's best for his subjects.”

Sherlock sighed. She tucked her hands beneath the folds of her cloak, pulling the warm, thick woolen fabric closer around herself. “Mycroft is never around. How would _he_ know what's best for us?”

June bit her lip. She shrugged, looking up at the moon as it sank low in the sky. “I'm sure he'll come to visit eventually, Sherlock. He's probably just busy, y'know... Advising the monarchy, or something equally mysterious and terrifying.”

This drew a low, short chuckle from Sherlock. “Mycroft _is_ the monarchy. I'm surprised anyone's still pretending otherwise.”

June shook her head, laughing along with her. “Anyway, as I was asking before you distracted me, rather successfully, with your sibling issues--” she flashed Sherlock a teasing smile, “--why did you _really_ summon me out into a frigid mid-winter's night?”

Ahead of them, a path of snow-covered gravel stretched away toward a cluster of little wooden houses hunkered beneath heavy lids of white powder. A single lantern burned in the window of the nearest. As they approached, it flickered and went out. 

“There's been an incident.” Sherlock didn't look at June. June watched her, trying to read anything in that carefully blank expression. “Two girls fell ill with an unknown affliction yesterday morning. Eleven-year-old Abigail Williams and nine-year-old Elizabeth Parris, the niece and daughter of the Reverend Samuel Parris, respectively. Both of them were speaking in gibberish, having fits, and contorting themselves into unnatural positions. A doctor has been called, but it will take him a few days to arrive. Until then, no official diagnosis can be made.”

June searched her mind, frowning slightly. Sherlock's description had triggered something in her memory. And then it dawned on her: “There was another incident like this, four years ago. The Goodwin children. Their behavior was exactly as you've described.”

Sherlock looked at June then, light eyes reflecting the pale moon. Her expression was one of surprise and delight. “Precisely. I wasn't sure you'd remember. It was a couple years before we arrived.”

June nodded, trying to hide how pleased she was to have exceeded Sherlock's expectations. “Back in England, my mother was a midwife. She taught me quite a lot about healing, and the afflictions of both the mind and body. I tend to pay attention to such things.”

Sherlock smiled. “I'd noticed.” 

“Of course. Of course you did.” June let out her breath in a soft huff of laughter, watching the thin fingers of white mist dissipate across the star-speckled sky. “Is there anything you _don't_ notice?”

Sherlock shook her head. “I'm not in the habit of missing things, no.”

They had reached the first house by this time, and were coming up on the second. They were still nearly a half-mile from the center of the village, where the houses were bigger, richer, and closer together. Here on the outskirts of the colony lived the hardiest woodsmen and hunters: those expected to hold their own against the vicious attacks by man and beast that so often fell on Salem's citizens in these troubled times.

“So.” June nestled her chin into the collar of her coat. “What is it? This affliction? I know you have a theory.”

“The Reverend believes it's witchcraft.” 

“Yeah, 'course he does. But what do _you_ think?”

“I've narrowed it down to three possibilities: first, the girls are bored and faking their illness; second, there was a contaminant in something they ate; third, it's a rare convulsive disease they picked up either from an unknown visitor, or from an animal.”

“So you're sure it's not black magic, then.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I am. Superstition is for the desperate and deluded.” Her voice was thick with disdain. “Currently, I'm favoring the first explanation. It's possible that, given the girls' recent interest in the darker arts, they've taken it a step further and are now living out scenarios they read in their father's books. When I visited the Reverend's living quarters last year, I distinctly remember seeing a book on witchcraft and possession in his library.”

June let out a disbelieving huff. “You really think they'd risk being discovered reading books on evil magick? If the Reverend found out...” Her sentence tapered off into silence, because really, she didn't need to finish that thought aloud.

Sherlock shook her head. “It's likely they're too young to understand the consequences of their actions quite so well as you and I.”

“Yes, but--”

“June. It is a theory, nothing more. I have no evidence that would allow me to make such accusations, or otherwise step in to prevent harm to the children, or anyone they might accuse of bewitching them. Especially not when the children are relatives of the Reverend himself. As you've just said, even my brother must follow colonial rule, or chaos is inevitable. As it is, Salem Village is on the brink of collapse. The last thing we need do is give others reason to suspect fellow villagers of wrongdoings without proper proof.”

June bit her lip, wanting to argue—because there _had_ to be some way they could prevent the trouble that false possessions could bring to the village, if that truly was what was going on—but finding no way to counter Sherlock's firm statements. In the end, she shook her head with a weary sigh, and allowed the conversation to die out.

. . . . . .

Back in their small, drafty one-room house, June slipped out of her boots and into bed. She turned over and shut her eyes against the faint light of the lantern on the table, listening as Sherlock paced from the fireplace to the front door, and back again. The lack of moonlight coming through the window told June that it was very late—or very early, depending on your view—and the sun would be up in a few hours. She exhaled slowly, concentrating on the warmth of the air in her lungs as it escaped between her parted lips. Even inside their shelter, it was bitterly cold. The blankets covering June's body were hardly enough to keep her comfortable; she pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them close in an attempt to conserve some warmth.

Sherlock stopped pacing. June could feel her friend's eyes on her back. “You're cold.” It wasn't a question. 

June made a sound that wasn't quite confirmation, but wasn't denial, either. 

“I'll start a fire.” There was the distinct sound of wood scraping wood as Sherlock knelt down and began rummaging through the tinder pile.

“Don't bother.” June turned over. Her gaze fell on Sherlock, crouched beside the mantle, a dry stick of birch in her hands. Sherlock looked up, and their eyes met. In the dimming lantern light, Sherlock was hardly more than a cloaked silhouette. 

Sherlock straightened up, dusting herself off. “You're freezing, June. Don't be ridiculous.” 

“I'm not.” June sat up, stifling a yawn with one hand. “Not being ridiculous, that is.” She made a _come-here_ motion with one finger, and turned over, pulling the covers up to her nose. “Besides, you've got to be cold yourself. You were out on that blasted hill for much longer than I was. Come to bed.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, and set down the birch stick. June listened to her wrestling with her boots for a long moment, and then the dark-haired woman was slipping into their single, too-small bed, still fully clothed (minus the cloak) and halfheartedly muttering about not being tired yet.

“Well, that's too ba--” June cut herself off with a sharp yelp as something wet and freezing touched her sockless feet and exposed calves. “Sherlock, what in God's name?” She scrambled upright, glaring down at her friend.

“My clothes are wet from kneeling in the snow.” Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow she'd buried her face in. “Ignore it. Your body's heat will warm it up soon enough.”

“Uh, no.” June's voice was edged with exasperation. At this rate, she would be getting a total of zero hours of sleep before the morning dawned. “Take off your disgusting, filthy wet clothes, Sherlock. Or so help me.”

“Or so help you what? You'll steal all the blankets in the night?” Sherlock shoved the covers off, and swung her legs out of bed. Grudgingly slow, she began removing the soaking articles of clothing clinging to her body, tossing them into an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. “Oh, wait. You already do.”

June slipped back beneath the covers, flinching slightly as her hand settled on a cold, damp patch of the mattress. “Oh, I do, do I? Well at least I don't leave dead animals lying around the house and on the dining table, or put dirt samples next to the spices in the pantry, or--”

“Yes, point made.” Sherlock slid back into bed beside June. “I'm a terrible house-mate, I'm aware.”

June let out an exasperated sigh, and tried not to sound too fond when she said, “I wouldn't want to live with anyone else, you know.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. June couldn't see her face—their backs were to each other—but she swore she heard Sherlock's breath catch very slightly at her admission. 

“You know, Sherlock,” June slid one hand under her pillow, fluffing it, “I wonder how many people have figured out we're not sisters. We don't exactly look alike.”

“Perhaps it would be more believable if we told them I'm the eldest,” Sherlock said. “I am, after all, taller, cleverer, more elegant, and far more mature--”

With a surprised laugh, June kicked Sherlock in the back of the leg. “Shut up! I'm being serious. This is serious. What if it gets out that we're not related?”

Sherlock let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Then what? What does it matter what people think of us? We're not doing anything wrong.”

June sighed. “No. No, we're not.” She swallowed, turning onto her back to stare at the dark ceiling far above. “But people might assume that--”

“Oh, who cares what people _assume?_ ” Sherlock's voice was tight, her words low and fierce. “It's not illegal for two unmarried women to live under the same roof, is it?”

“No, of course not. It's just--”

“You're worried about your public image.”

“I'm worried that if accusations of witchcraft and panic spread, we'll be placed under intense scrutiny for how we live.”

“My brother lives in London. My parents live in London. And yet I was forced to leave London due to an inability to abide by the stunningly idiotic rules of that society; thankfully, you were good enough to accompany me. There is nothing wrong with how _we_ live, June.”

June closed her eyes. She let her breath escape in a soft, drawn-out exhale. She willed her muscles to relax, and the fluttering of her heart to calm. “We have to be careful, Sherlock. No more interfering with official business until we're sure Abigail Williams and Elizabeth Parris aren't going to accuse anyone of anything unnatural.”

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

“What was that?”

“I said _'dull.'_ ” With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock pulled the blankets up over her head, and flipped onto her front so that her face was buried in her pillow. 

“I need you to promise me, Sherlock. No more showing off until this is over.” June put as much force into her words as she could muster at such a dreadfully late hour. This was too important to let go.

“Fine.” The single, sharp word was completely muffled. “I'll just lie here and be bored for the foreseeable future.”

 _Better bored than dead,_ June didn't say. Instead, she said, “Alright, then. Goodnight, Sherlock.” Reaching over, she snuffed out the lantern that Sherlock had set on the bedside table, plunging the room into total darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted this chapter to be longer, but it just sort of ended where it ended, and I had no control over it. Sorry about that. Anyway, I hope you all liked this chapter! "Totally platonic" bed-sharing is waaaay too much fun to write.


	3. Three Victims

**Chapter Three**

**Three Victims**

Nearly a month passed without incident. June was called in to help a young woman deliver twins down in Salem Town, but apart from those few days away, she was constantly by Sherlock's side. Sherlock, for her own part, was restless but not destructive (as was often the case when deprived of crimes to unravel) and spent most of her time observing the decomposition rates of various dead animal carcasses; collecting strange, often disgustingly pungent herbs and plants; and taking long walks through Salem Village. June watched her companion carefully whenever she could afford to—Lestrade's warning about the dangers facing unusual women in the village had lodged itself in her brain—and never allowed Sherlock to go within a quarter mile of the village center without accompaniment. 

It was mid-winter, sometime late in January, when the news got out that the doctor who'd been called in from Salem Town to diagnose the strange behavior of Reverend Parris's daughter and niece couldn't determine a physical cause for their sickness. He had therefore concluded it was witchcraft, and acted accordingly. When June heard that Parris's servant, a woman named Tituba, had been arrested on suspicion of witchcraft, she raced back to hers and Sherlock's house at once. She burst in, breathing hard, and slammed the door behind her. She bolted it, then moved toward the fire, holding out her hands as if to warm them. They were shaking, she realized, but not from the cold.

Sherlock, who was sitting at their table carefully examining what appeared to be two identical samples of reddish clay, looked up at June's dramatic entrance. “What's wrong?” Her question was sharp, pointed. June could feel her companion's pale blue-green eyes tracing the lines of her body, her hands, her face. Searching for an explanation in her posture and physical condition before any words could leave her mouth.

June shook her head. Her blond hair was tangled, messy from being under a hood all day. “The doctor from Salem Town says it's witchcraft.”

Sherlock looked momentarily confused, and then her face relaxed into an expression of understanding. “Oh,” she said. “The girls. The Reverend's niece and daughter. I expect they've accused their servant, then. Which is why you've returned looking so flustered.”

June turned to Sherlock, frowning slightly. “What? Why would I be that bothered by an arrest?”

“You're afraid that Tituba will accuse others of witchcraft in order to put off her own execution, and to cast of the brunt of the blame. Rightly so; she's clever enough to know that our lawmen will fall for that. The officials are like their bloodhounds: if they're on the scent of a single stag, they'll pursue it diligently until it's fallen. But if they're on the scent of an entire herd, most will escape unharmed—possibly all, if the attention is spread thin enough.”

June clenched her teeth together, shaking her head. “She'll accuse you, Sherlock. You know she will.”

Sherlock shrugged, somehow managing to look nonchalant about the prospect of being blamed for a capital offense in a village full of hyper-religious, superstitious puritans. “If she does, I can explain to the good doctor and Reverend and whoever else will listen what's really going on.”

“They _won't_ listen.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “Of course they won't. Not initially. But if I can bring enough evidence against their claims, and persuade Tituba to admit that she has no real accomplices, I can stop this whole thing before it begins.”

June's heart sank, heavy as a stone, inside her chest. “Maybe I can look at the girls. See if the town doctor missed anything.”

Sherlock looked up at her. The firelight caught in her eyes, making them shine like cut gemstones. June watched as Sherlock traced patterns in the dirt samples with one forefinger, stubbornly avoiding her gaze.

“They won't allow you anywhere near the girls.” Sherlock's voice was low, but not soft. It trembled with suppressed energy. June could see Sherlock's body tensing beneath her cloak, muscles rigid with anticipation or anxiety—June could never distinguish between the two when it came to her companion. “If you ask, they'll suspect you of being involved. They'll arrest you, too.”

June sighed, and scrubbed a hand across her face. “Yeah, okay. You're probably right.”

“When am I ever wrong?”

June snorted. “A lot more often than you'd like everyone to think, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. She sat down at the table, and swept the two dirt samples back into their respective jars. She corked them and set them aside _._ “The doctor won't allow you to see the girls, because he knows that his diagnosis is false. If someone as well-trained in healing as you--”

“--Thank you--”

“--you're welcome, were to examine Abigail and Elizabeth, I believe it's extremely likely that physical signs of disease or illness would be discovered. He can't risk that.”

June realized in an instant what Sherlock was saying, and let out her breath in a sharp hiss. “The doctor, he _wants_ us to panic, doesn't he? That's why he trudged all the way up here in the middle of winter. He _wants_ to spread the idea that people inside the village are witches.”

Sherlock offered up one of her rarest, most genuine smiles. Reserved, as always, for June. “Precisely. You're a lot smarter than you let on, June.”

June raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether to be insulted or flattered. She settled on the latter, and returned Sherlock's smile. “So I'm right, then.”

Sherlock nodded. She stood up, moving around the table and pacing before the fireplace. Her cloak clung to her hips, and billowed around her booted calves. “Yes, you're right.”

June bit the inside of her cheek as a wave of nervousness rushed through her. “But… why? Why cause a panic? What does the doctor want?”

Sherlock reached the bed, and threw herself down. She rolled onto her back, pressing her palms together and steepling her fingers under her chin. Her eyes slid shut, and her expression turned to one of reflection. “You know exactly what he wants.”

June sighed. She couldn't help the sting of irritation that pierced her at that comment. Crossing her arms, she moved closer to the fire, seeking out its radiant heat. “No, Sherlock. I really don't.”

Sherlock didn't move. She remained perfectly still on the bed, body tense and eyes tightly closed. “Salem Town. The people there are unhappy with our choice of Reverend. They believe that the settlers of Salem Village are un-pure, and possibly falling into favor with the Devil. They can't risk that.”

June frowned. She turned her full attention back to Sherlock. “So the doctor is here to stir up suspicions about Reverend Parris?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “If villagers of our settlement are suspected of witchcraft, then it's clear that the Reverend is not doing his job correctly. He will be seen as incapable of protecting his flock, and will be ousted from his position, just as our previous governor was chased away last year for similarly perceived incompetence.”

June unfolded her arms, and shook her head. She moved to the bed, and sat down on the edge, watching Sherlock's face carefully. “You're a clear target for suspicion, Sherlock. You know that.”

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly. In the half-light, her pupils dilated, black nearly eclipsing sea-foam green. “I've removed anything from this house that could be used as evidence against me in a trial.”

“Trial. Right.” June inhaled deeply. She exhaled slowly. “Let's not let it come to that, yeah?”

Sherlock's eyes slid shut again. “I'll do my best to avoid that outcome, yes.” 

“Good.”

They were silent for a long time after that.

. . . . . .

Over the next few days, the news got out that three women in total had been arrested on suspicion of cursing Abigail Parris and Elizabeth Williams using dark magick: Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn. June and Sherlock stayed in their house, careful not to go out unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, at this point, Sherlock was getting far too restless for their temporary refuge to last long, and June was worried that her companion would either die of boredom, or else do something drastic and dangerous to alleviate that boredom in the not-so-distant future.

“They'll try to reverse the curse using whatever methods the Reverend and Tituba suggest. When those things doesn't work—because they won't; the girls aren't actually bewitched—they'll resort to killing the women whom they believe to be witches in the hopes that destroying the witch will break the curse.” June awoke to the sound of Sherlock's lowered voice, and looked over to see her housemate standing before the fire, hands clasped behind her back, staring down at the flames. It was early in the morning—the sun was only just peering over the distant horizon—and June was wrapped up in her sheets, warm and comfortable in her bed.

Sitting up, June blinked, and rubbed her eyes. She pulled the blankets up around herself, curling her legs under herself in an effort to keep them warm. “Sherlock, why're you up?”

“I didn't feel like sleeping.” Sherlock's tone was dismissive. “Besides, there are things I need to do.”

June sensed the intent behind those words, and was out of bed and half-dressed in seconds. “Oh, no, you don't.” Her words were firm, leaving no room for argument. Not that Sherlock cared. If Sherlock wanted to argue, then there was nothing in the world that June could do to shut her up.

June felt Sherlock's gaze on her as she pulled on her clothes, wrapping herself in her warmest travel cloak. The temperature had fallen dangerously low during the night; June was suddenly very thankful that Sherlock had been awake to keep the fire going all night. Midwinter was the worst time to fall ill, she'd observed in her many years studying the sick and injured. Even the strongest, healthiest men and women were far more likely to be killed by a simple fever or wound during the colder months. Especially in small villages, like Salem, where good doctors were rare and hard to contact, and sudden, dangerous sickness was more likely to end in a funeral than a recovery.

“I didn't say what I was going to do.” Sherlock looked away, back toward the fire.

June sighed. She pulled a strap tight around her waist, tugging on the warm cotton cloth until it settled just right on her form. “You're going to visit the Reverend, and try to see the afflicted children.”

“Mmm, nope.”

“Then you're going to try to meet with the accused. Sarah Good, Tituba, and Sarah Osborn.” June crossed her arms, body tensing with anticipation and anxiety when Sherlock didn't immediately reply. “It's not going to happen, Sherlock. You'll just get in trouble.”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. Turning her whole body toward June, she fixed her companion with an icy stare. “I have to know.”

“I thought you already knew.”

“Knew what?”

June threw up her hands. “I don't know! What do you need to know, then?”

Sherlock's gaze softened slightly. She moved across the room until she stood directly in front of June, just feet away. Not for the first time, June was struck by how tall and lithe her friend was. Like a panther: compact, quick both mentally and physically, and, when she wanted to be, a vicious, dedicated hunter. “I need to know what connects them. If I can find a reason for Abigail Parris and Elizabeth Williams to want these women… removed… from their lives, then I might have some evidence to support my theory that they're acting.”

June swallowed, doing her best not to let her eyes linger too long on the pale, smooth skin of her companion's throat, or the sharp, clean lines and planes of Sherlock's face. “And if they're not?”

Sherlock tilted her head slightly. Her blue-green eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips in an expression of deep contemplation. “Then I'll visit the Parris's house and see if I can't find anything suggesting that the girls' food was poisoned, or otherwise unfit for consumption.”

“What if you get caught?”

“I won't.”

“You might.” June gritted her teeth, trying hard not to let the dread she felt at that possibility show. “And if you're caught, they'll accuse you on the spot, Sherlock. No matter how clever you are, or how good your reasons or excuses, Reverend Parris won't forgive an intrusion like that.”

“I'll ask if I can look around first.” Sherlock half-smiled. “Of course I'll ask. I'm not an idiot.”

“Yes, you are.” June tried not to sound fond when she said this—she was aiming for accusatory, not love-struck—but the words came out sounding like an endearment regardless of her intent. 

Sherlock snorted, and rolled her eyes to disguise the small smile June saw beginning to form. Sherlock stepped back, away from June, and returned to her spot in front of the fire. She climbed into her armchair, tucking her knees under her and folding her hands in her lap. She stared into the flames, motionless and poised. Like a hawk perched on the highest tree in a forest, searching for a rabbit in a vast field far below.

“Sherlock.” June followed her companion's lead, settling herself into her own armchair. She braced her elbows on her knees, and cupped her chin in her palms. She watched Sherlock, noting the tension in her housemate's face. “If you ask permission to search his house, Reverend Parris is definitely going to be suspicious. I don't know if you remember, but you're not actually an official. You're an amateur… a _female_ amateur, in fact. A disgraced, foreign woman amateur. I don't think someone like Parris is going to appreciate being second-guessed by you, no matter how smart you are.”

Sherlock let out a deep, gusty sigh. “Oh, June. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to let little things like that get in your way.” She was on her feet in an instant, pacing again, every muscle in her body tight with suppressed emotion. Back and forth, back and forth. A tigress pacing in a cramped, airless cage. Hungry and desperate for the hunt.

June straightened up, blinking. The sudden shift in Sherlock's behavior wasn't unusual—Sherlock's moods were always shifting—but it seemingly marked the beginning of the inevitable breakdown that June had been anticipating ever since she'd banned Sherlock from interfering with local law and investigations. “Leave it alone, Sherlock. As long as you don't make it worse, the authorities will soon sort this out. And then you can go back to poking around dead bodies and making the officials look like idiots right away. I promise you.”

Sherlock shook her head, and continued pacing in tight loops between the two armchairs. “Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn have done nothing wrong. The Reverend and the officials might kill three innocent women if I don't interfere.”

June swallowed hard. Guilt rose up inside her, weighing on her heart, and in that moment, she knew that Sherlock was right. If they could do something—anything at all—to spare the lives of three innocent women, then it was worth the risk. _Any risk._ With a heavy sigh, June nodded. “Okay.” She sat up straighter, meeting Sherlock's gaze directly as her friend paused in her pacing and turned to face June. “Alright, fine. But Sherlock, please, I'm begging you. Be careful. For me.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile. Her eyes glittered with excitement. “You know me.” She started toward the door, reaching for her favorite travel cloak—the long, dark one with the heavy collar and red stitching around the button holes—and pulled it around herself with a soft whooshing of fabric. She opened the door, and stood in the doorway, framed against the first light of dawn, looking back over her shoulder at June. “I'm always careful.”

June snorted disbelievingly, but couldn't help a fond smile. She shook her head. “You're a terrible liar.”

“Yes, well. I can't be good at everything, or the rest of you would feel inadequate.” Sherlock's returning smile was warm, and her eyes were alight with mischief. “More than you already do, I mean.”

“Shut it.” June laughed, rising from her chair and moving back toward the bed. “Now get out of here. Go talk to the Reverend. See if you can make him see sense.”

Sherlock hesitated. She shifted from one foot to the other, and, in June's opinion, looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, I'm not going to the Reverend's house yet, June. I'm going for a long walk to kill time until after everyone's asleep.”

June turned to her, eyes widening and heart sinking. “No. No, Sherlock, that's a terrible idea. If you get caught breaking in at night, it'll be worse than if you ask outright for permission!”

“Then I won't get caught.”

June shook her head, adamantly opposed. “No. No way. You can't know that for sure.”

“If you're so worried--” Sherlock took a step outside the house, half-closing the door so that only her face and a strip of her body was visible to June, “--then why don't you come with me, and make sure I stay out of trouble?”

Inhaling deeply to steady herself, June let her eyes slide shut for a long moment. And then she nodded, slowly, regretting her words before they even left her mouth: “Fine, Sherlock. Alright. But you have to promise me one thing.”

Sherlock practically beamed. “Anything for you, June.”

“If we get caught, you let me take the blame.”

Sherlock's elated expression fell away immediately. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and her gaze froze over. “That's absurd.”

June hardened her own expression, and straightened her stance to show she wasn't about to back down without a fight. “It's the only way I'll go, Sherlock. Or let you go.”

Sherlock snorted. “Since when do you _let_ me do anything?”

June cocked an eyebrow. “Just because I've never had to hold you down or knock you out doesn't mean I'm not perfectly capable of doing so.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “June. You can't honestly expect me to--”

June cut her off. “You can't honestly expect _me_ to stand back and watch them arrest you for a capital crime without doing something, Sherlock! If we're going at all, it's on my terms. If we get caught in a compromising position, I take the blame. You do everything you can to get away, no matter what. Do you understand?”

Sherlock glared halfheartedly for a long moment, but then the ice in her eyes melted, leaving behind an expression that was half regret, half irritation. “We won't get caught, June.”

“But if we do. Promise me you'll do everything in your power to avoid being accused.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Sherlock closed her eyes. For a long moment, her face was entirely devoid of emotion. Carefully blank, just like her next words. “I promise you I won't get caught, June. Meet me at midnight outside the Reverend's house.” 

Before June could answer, or protest her friend's choice of words, the door had slammed shut and Sherlock was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter finished! I've pretty much been dead or dying leading up to and during the first episode of Season 4, so yeah. I still can't believe That Happened and we actually have new content. I'm still not anywhere close to being over it (lmfao) but at least I can kind of concentrate on writing again now! ;D
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read, gave kudos, or commented on this story. I'm so happy to see that people are enjoying it! Wishing you all a happy new year! <3


	4. The Pantry

**Chapter Four**

**The Pantry**

The Reverend Parris’s house—or mansion, rather, at least by Salem Village standards—was located near the center of town, within easy reach of the church. When June arrived, Sherlock was already there. The moon was halfway across the sky—midnight was nigh. The tall, lithe detective in her long, dark travel coat lay hidden in the shadows across the gravel road from the reverend’s house. June approached her stealthily, like a cat stalking a bird. However, this bird was a hawk, and spied her long before she arrived. 

“You came.” Sherlock smiled. She straightened up, smoothing the creases in her coat with slender, gloves fingers. 

June snorted. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “I thought maybe you’d come to your senses.”

“Oh really?” June couldn’t help the coy smile that slid across her lips. “Good luck with that, Sherlock. You’re stuck with me. And our agreement,” she added, sternly.

Sherlock sighed. “Really, June. It’s a terrible plan.”

June shrugged. “Too bad. I’m not letting you be accused of a capital crime.”

A dark, angry light came into Sherlock’s pale eyes. “And you think I could let _you_ be accused? No, June. I’d rather die.”

“And you would, too.” June crossed her arms. She fixed Sherlock with an expression of irritated disbelief. “We’ve been over this. If you want me along, you’ll have to let me make the rules.”

Sherlock looked like she’d love to keep arguing, but June cut her off with a sharp jerk of her blond head. Crouching down, she pulled Sherlock with her. Pointing across the street with the hand not clenched around Sherlock’s wrist, she brought her companion’s formidable attention to the faint golden glow in the mansion’s upmost window. 

“I saw it earlier,” Sherlock whispered. “It hasn’t grown, or moved. I believe someone left a lamp on in the attic.”

June frowned. In a voice so low it was barely audible, she asked, “Are you sure? What if someone knows we’re out here, and is keeping watch? Maybe we should go back home. Wait for a better, safer opportunity.” 

Sherlock scoffed. “ _You_ don’t even like that plan. Besides, you’re not even afraid.”

June’s frown deepened. “How do you know that?”

Sherlock jerked her head down. June looked, and realized she was still clutching her companion’s wrist tightly with one hand. “Your pulse,” Sherlock said, with a small smile. “It’s perfectly steady.”

June retracted her hand at once. Shaking her head, she sighed. “You’re right. I’m not afraid. Just… concerned.”

“You’re as curious as I am. About what really happened to those girls, about why they’re ill.” Sherlock’s tone made it clear that these were statements of fact, not questions. June didn’t bother trying to argue.

Rubbing a hand over her face and accepting defeat, June nodded slowly. “You’re right. But Sherlock, I’m entirely serious about taking the blame. If we’re caught—”

“Yes, _if_.” Sherlock straightened up. Reaching down, she took June’s hand, pulling her shorter friend up as well. “I don’t plan on it. And if we _are_ caught, the best course of action is to run before you’re recognized. I know you’re perfectly capable of sprinting when under pressure.”

June huffed. She didn’t try to pull her hand away, though. 

Together, they crept across the gravel street and into the mansion’s front yard. Sherlock led the way around the back, to where two barrels stood propped against the siding. The grassy patch beside the house was scuffed and muddied, but there were no signs of the farm or guard animals that made the mess. Sherlock stopped. June stood close beside her, one hand on her hip, the other still twined with Sherlock’s gloved one.

Sherlock looked up. Up toward the chimney. The most obvious covert point of entry for anyone trying to get in unannounced and uninvited. “Follow me,” she said. Before June could protest or ask for details of the plan, Sherlock was already clambering up the Parris’s woodpile. Using a barrel as a stepping stool, she propelled herself to the top of the pile. But she didn’t stop there. The pile reached the sill of the first-floor window; she stepped onto that, bracing herself as she pushed herself upward. The tips of her fingers just barely touched the base of the second-story windowsill. After a heart-pounding moment where June was sure that her companion would fall with a tremendous _crash_ back onto the woodpile, Sherlock got a grip and hoisted herself up. 

After that, it was easy enough for her to reach the roof. The sharply slanted shingles, intended to shrug off the heavy snows of winter (which had only just begun to melt as spring approached), were steep but made for excellent handholds. June watched with baited breath as Sherlock swung herself up onto the roof with as much sound as a panther climbing a tree—which is to say, none at all.

“Now what?” June called up softly, cupping her hands around her lips to direct her voice toward Sherlock. “I won’t be able to do that.” She gestured to herself with both hands, then to the height between the first window and the second. “I’m not freakishly tall, Sherlock. I can’t reach the roof from the second floor.”

Sherlock turned to June. She stood atop the roof now, caged in moonlight. Above her, stars glowed and sparkled in a sky as inky black as the detective’s own silhouette. She was magnificent, June thought. A goddess, descended to earth. One of the Greek deities June had read about back in England, in books on heathen beliefs and cultures that her mother had kept stashed away from the world. Athena, maybe. Goddess of wisdom and war. Yes, Athena fit Sherlock perfectly.

“I’ll get inside and open the downstairs window.” Sherlock called back down. Her voice was soft and yet June flinched as if she’d shouted. Mostly at the idea—did Sherlock really think it was a good idea to sneak around the reverend’s mansion more than necessary?

June opened her mouth to protest. But of course, Sherlock was already in action. With a sweep of her long coat, the amateur detective scaled the chimney and disappeared down it. June let out her breath in a long huff. She threw up her hands in exasperation, then clenched them by her sides. Oh well. There was no point being angry. That wouldn’t help anything.

Climbing the woodpile, June crouched beside the window and waited. Her heart thundered in her chest; she’d nearly knocked down a large, unsteady piece of wood balanced atop the heap. Swallowing her momentary panic, she crossed her arms and looked up at the stars. And she waited. And waited.

What felt like months later, but was probably less than a minute, Sherlock’s face appeared on the other side of the glass. June stood up as the window creaked open. She slipped through as soon as it was just wide enough, dropping soundlessly onto the hardwood floor. Straightening up, she blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to this new level of lightlessness.

Sherlock left the window open. “We’ll need to come back through it,” she said when June attempted to close it. “Trust me, we shouldn’t risk making any more noise.”

“Any _more_ noise?” June said warily. “What did you do?”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. “I tripped over a fire poker. I steadied it before it made much sound. But it did make _a_ sound. No one seems to have been awoken, however.”

June bit the inside of her cheek. “How do you know? Just because no one’s left their bed doesn’t mean they’re not awake. Listening. Waiting for us to make another wrong move…”

“ _Wrong_ move? I wouldn’t exactly say—”

“Sherlock.” June made sure her tone made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for arguing. “We’re illegally breaking into the Reverend’s house to investigate possible cases of bewitchment. Everything about this is a wrong move. Every. Single. Thing.”

Sherlock made a soft sound of irritation. But she didn’t argue back. Moving away from the window, she disappeared into the thick gloom of the mansion.

June followed close behind. After a few minutes of groping through the darkness like bats in a subterranean cave, she caught her companion by the arm, effectively halting her. “Sherlock.” The single word was soft as a sigh. Yet in the close, tense blackness, it was almost as if she’d shouted. “Where are we going? Shouldn’t I know?”

Sherlock twisted her arm around. At first, June thought she was trying to get away. But then Sherlock’s fingers were threading through her own. Connecting them in the lightlessness. “To the pantry,” Sherlock whispered. “Remember that I told you one of my theories involves contaminants in the afflicted girls’ food. I want samples of everything that they’ve consumed in the past weeks, even months. Anything I can get my hands on. If I can prove, through experimentation, that an infectious agent in their stores caused their illness, it will clear the names of the accused.”

June sucked in a deep breath and held it. Slowly, bit by bit, she released it like doves from a cage. She shook her head. “You know, you’ll still have to explain how you got samples from the Reverend Parris’s private pantry. And Sherlock, even if this clears the names of the accused, breaking into the Reverend’s home and stealing from him are both serious offenses. Even without witchcraft getting involved.”

Sherlock was silent for another long moment. From June’s not-so-limit experience, this meant she was thinking hard. Likely trying to come up with something clever and unarguably logical to say in response. But as the silence dragged on, June realized that Sherlock wasn’t stalling—she was listening. Holding perfectly still. A sharp, warning squeeze of her hand told June that something was wrong moments before she heard it:

There were footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming down. The soft, golden light creeping down the hallways behind where the two would-be thieves stood motionless grew brighter. _Shit,_ thought June. Her heart launched into her throat, and stuck there, pounding. _What now?_

Sherlock pulled on June’s hand. June gladly followed her lead, down the hallway and through what felt—and smelled—like the kitchen. _Almost to the pantry,_ she thought. _Thank God._ They could get the samples Sherlock was here for, and then escape back through…

“The window!” June gasped, once the footsteps were no longer audible. “Sherlock, we left the window open. They’ll feel the draft. They’ll know we’re here…!”

Sherlock’s grip on June’s hand tightened momentarily. June felt rather than saw the agitation fill her companion’s slender body. “We’ll have to get out another way,” she whispered. Her voice was strangely calm. But beneath the cool, collected exterior, June sensed an undercurrent of panic. Sherlock hadn’t thought this eventuality through. For all her planning, her attention to detail… well. They were trapped in the house of the richest and most influential man in Salem Village in the middle of the night, with one of the house’s residents on the prowl and accusations of witchcraft flying. Which was, to put it lightly, a bit not good.

Suddenly, the scrambling of claws on hardwood sounded. Another, more terrible thought occurred to June. Fear swelled inside her like an infected pustule, ready to burst. “Sherlock. There were scuff marks in the yard. Paw prints.”

Sherlock let out a long, low hiss. “Dogs. Yes. The Reverend has several. I thought it was odd that they weren’t on guard; I checked for their presence before entering the premises. I assumed that they were locked up for the night.”

June ground her teeth, suddenly furious. Fear was making her angry. Irrationally so. “I thought you said you never assume things!”

She couldn’t see Sherlock in the darkness, but June felt the sharp, piercing vibes of her companion’s flaring irritation at that remark. “Well now you see why, June! The dogs weren’t locked up, they just hadn’t been put out for the night.”

“They’ll smell us! They’ll raise the alarm, Sherlock! For fuck’s sake….”

Sherlock was on her feet at once. She pulled June to her side, so close that they were touching from shoulder to ankle. “Stay close,” she whispered. “Very close. The passageway leading to the pantry is narrow. We can’t afford to leave traces of our presence. Fibres from our clothes, hairs, our scent, anything. The Reverend’s dogs can trace such physical objects back to us.”

“That’s reassuring,” June hissed. The sarcasm was so thick in her mouth she felt as if she were spitting molasses. She followed Sherlock—as if she had a choice; her companion’s grip was so strong and her pace so determined it would be like fighting a hurricane. They went down the stairway to the Parris’s pantry. The door creaked painfully as Sherlock wedged it open. Wincing at the sound, June slid through after Sherlock.

Inside, with the door closed, the darkness was complete. They crouched together, side-by-side, still holding hands and breathing quick and shallow.

“Now your pulse is racing,” Sherlock said, rather unnecessarily.

“And you’re being obvious. We must be really scared.” June pressed her back to the cedar-plank-and-dirt wall of the cellar. She breathed deep. The whole room smelled of wheat dust, actual dust, and burlap. Much better than her’s and Sherlock’s own pantry, which usually smelled like Sherlock’s latest experiments. Which weren’t often pleasant.

Seconds passed like minutes. Minutes like hours. They lay there in the dark, crouched and motionless, too afraid to move, yet thrilling with the desire to run. But as time passed without further disturbances or sounds from above, June began to relax. As did Sherlock, if the weakening of her iron grip on June’s hand was any indicator.

Finally, June straightened up. She dusted off her dress, gritty from kneeling on the bare pantry floor. “Sherlock,” she whispered. “Let’s get what we came for, and go. No more games.”

“The dogs are outside now.” Sherlock stood up as well. She sighed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to remain here for now, June. We can’t risk them catching our scent and tracking us back to our home. The Reverend will be on the highest alert for intruders—after all, many acts of witchcraft require the witch to have direct contact with the victim. If we’re caught, as you already know, we’ll be accused, tried, and likely hung—the same fate that awaits those already we’re here to save.” June heard the bitter smile in her companion’s next words. “The irony is that our discovery here could end up strengthening the case against the others. At this point, all the village needs to fall apart with hysteria is confirmation that their suspicions are correct. One confession, and all hope for a logical and peaceful end to this conflict is lost.”

“Then don’t confess.” June crossed her arms. She leaned against the wall, breathing deep, trying to calm herself. It had been a long time since she’d been in a situation this dire. In fact, the closest she’d come to certain death before was on the trip over from England—their ship had been caught in a terrible storm, and nearly capsized. Afterward, due to her efforts to save other passengers from being swept overboard, June had come down with a terrible fever. The doctor had told her it was due to excess exposure to freezing waters. That, and a large splinter of the ship that had broken off and become embedded in her shoulder. As she thought of this, June’s shoulder throbbed angrily. June released her breath in a long, shuddering gust, and pressed her palm to the old wound.

“We should collect our samples.” Sherlock turned away; her coat swooshing as she did. June listened to her footsteps as she stalked away across the packed-dirt ground. A moment later, there was a rustling of burlap and the creaking of wooden barrels and boxes. 

With a deep sigh of resignation, June followed Sherlock’s lead. She rummaged through the pantry by touch and hearing alone—with no light at all, there was no hope for even the most sharp-eyed to find their way by sight.

They’d just finished collecting samples of everything in the pantry (or most everything; their pockets were bulging almost to the point of tearing), when the telltale _thunk-creak_ of a booted foot on the top stair sounded. It was followed by another, and another… someone was coming down.

June turned to Sherlock—or to where she thought Sherlock was, by the rustling of that ridiculous coat—and let out a sharp hiss of warning. Half a second later, Sherlock caught her by the wrist and pulled her across the room. “In here,” Sherlock whispered, shoving June ahead of her. Groping in the darkness, heart thundering in her chest, June felt the open rim of a large wine barrel ahead. The smell of wine hit her a moment later. Without complain, knowing she had no choice, she crawled inside the barrel. She felt around until she located the barrel’s lid; she pulled it on and sealed it tight. The only source of air in her new, cramped quarters was a single cork hole—she pressed her lips to the coin-sized opening, breathing shakily to calm her nerves.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, once she regained enough nerve to speak, “are you hidden?”

“No. Shut up and stay hidden, June,” came Sherlock’s sharp response. “I’m working on something.”

The footsteps were at the bottom of the stairs. There was a faint creaking sound as whoever it was on the other side gripped the handle of the cellar door. A beam of golden lanternlight crept through the crack over the threshold. 

“Now, Sherlock!” June whispered, as loudly as she dared. Her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings.

There was the faint _clunk_ of a barrel lid falling into place and sticking. “I’m hidden,” came Sherlock’s low voice, a moment later. “He won’t find us now.”

 _How do you know that?_ June wanted desperately to say. Also, _What did you do?_ But she kept her mouth shut, and her body motionless. There was no point arguing now. There would be time to shout some sense into her reckless friend later.

Assuming they survived, and weren’t torn apart by the Reverend’s dogs. Or sentenced and hung for witchcraft. Which was assuming a lot, June thought.

The door creaked open. The lanternlight flooded the little pantry. Through the cork-hole, June watched a pair of booted feet cross the dirty floor. They paused, just a meter away from where she and Sherlock lay hidden. She pulled her face back from the hole as the man crouched down. She closed her eyes, and gritted her teeth. _Please, don’t let him find us… don’t let him see our prints…!_

“For fuck’s sake.” The man swore in a low, angry voice. “I knew it. I knew I heard something down here.” 

Before June could prepare to fight, to run, to do anything at all, her barrel was being rolled over. A hand covered the cork hole. Darkness fell over her like a funeral cloak. “Got you!” snarled the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! So sorry it's been like, five months since I last updated. The 4th season of Sherlock kind of threw me off my groove for a loooong time, and I'm just getting over the disappointment now. But I'm still excited about writing this story, if anyone's still interested in reading it! :) After all, the best remedy to queerbaiting for me is to write a whole bunch of hella gay stuff. Which is exactly what I'm gonna do! I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, and again, sorry for taking so frickin' long to update. Love you all! Mwah! <3


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